


die-hard valentines

by dayurno



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5 Times, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayurno/pseuds/dayurno
Summary: It’s in Kevin’s quietened breaths that Andrew imagines white picket fence houses and low sunsets, the eld of childhood that surely has not only today, but also tomorrow. He will make it in a way no one else in this place — and certainly not Andrew and Neil —  will: that suburban tomb is still possible for Kevin.A yellow house on a hill, an orange cat that drools each time it yawns, a swimming pool with bright, big, blue teeth; every childish daydream stored in Andrew’s pockets being turned upside down for Kevin to take. The idea undoes in him a lifetime of yearning so thick Andrew has no idea how to cut through without getting webbed back into it.Or: Kevin and Andrew — and their love for Neil —  through each other's eyes.
Relationships: Kevin Day/Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 11
Kudos: 140





	die-hard valentines

**Author's Note:**

> i really just needed the serotonin

**i.**

“It’s getting ridiculous.”

From where he’d been awkwardly poking the heart shaped chocolate box placed right in front of his locker like it’s an alien object, Kevin frowns. “He’ll get over it.”

Neil scoffs. “You’d think your personality would drive him away.”

Sprawled out in usual post-practice laziness on top of one of the benches, Nicky shakes out the water from his hair. “It’s the longest a freshman’s crush on Kevin has ever lasted,” he points out rather unhelpfully. “I mean, it’s getting kind of concerning. Do you think he’s one of those guys that like it when people are mean to them?”

Kevin blinks at him, his know-it-all instincts overpowering his estrangement towards the chocolate box. “A masochist?” he tentatively offers.

“No, no,” Nicky hums, but then pauses to consider. “Is masochism a part of BDSM?”

Less reluctant to participate in this conversation than he is to let a chance of making fun of Kevin slide, Aaron points out, “The _‘m’._ "

“That’s not the point,” Neil cuts their conversation short, irritable and snappy in a way only Kevin can get him to be, all of his buttons pressed hard against. “How can he not take a hint? Kevin is not interested.”

Kevin traces his fingertips over the edge of the chocolate box carefully, unsure of what to do with it and somewhat empathetic of Neil’s irritation, though not at all sharing it. At last, he questions, “Would it be rude to return it?”

“Yes,” Aaron replies, matter-of-fact and quite uncharacteristically. Andrew wonders what does it matter to him whether Kevin’s actions come off as rude or not, Aaron being the perfect example of a man too removed from society to ever bother with niceties, but eventually concludes he might find the entire situation more amusing than he lets on. “At least thank him.”

“I don’t like chocolate,” Kevin answers, his frown deepening. Andrew’s gaze dips to meet every mole scattered around his forehead and cheeks before sliding up to find Kevin’s eyes, those of which are too busy pointed at Aaron to notice Andrew’s staring. “And I don’t like him.”

“You do not like anyone,” Andrew points out, too used to Kevin’s attention on him to be able to stand it belonging somewhere else. 

His gaze snaps to Andrew almost instantly, followed curiously by Neil’s. “I’m not you,” he hums, though not at all unkindly. In a way, it’s even fond — Kevin’s jabs, more often than not, fall softer than intended when aimed at Andrew. 

“And thank God for that,” Andrew agrees, gentler than not. It goes both ways, the delicate web-weaving of their language. He turns an uninterested look towards Kevin, though feeling everything but, and advises — instructs, “Tell him no.”

“He hasn’t asked anything,” Kevin murmurs. 

“He will,” is what Andrew simply answers, “and you will tell him no when he does.”

Even through the thick fog of his confusion, Kevin’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly, nothing more than the tease of a challenge. He doesn’t say anything, of course — wouldn’t, anyways, with so many people in the room —, but that’s the thing about Kevin: Andrew never needs much to understand him. All it takes is a flick of his fingers, a raise of his eyebrow, the slight shrug of a shoulder for Andrew to know what Kevin thinks: needless to say, the easy recognition of Kevin’s smugness makes his mood drop drastically, if only because Andrew had no business meddling between Kevin and his tons of admirers.

He huffs, shoving his gloves and helmet into his locker, Neil’s eyes heavy on his nape as they are. That is where they stay — where they never stray — until the locker room empties out completely, leaving only the sound of their teammates’ footsteps and Kevin for company. Andrew doesn’t look up at him as Kevin quietly waits by the doorway, but he does take an obscenely long time to tie his shoes, dragging on the movement to give Kevin some time to prepare. Small mercies, Andrew guesses, are worth it when it comes to what Kevin could give him if he stayed and waited. 

“I will tell him no,” is what Kevin prompts after the soft murmur of distant chattering disappears, the damp curls of his hair sticking to his forehead. The late afternoon light brushes against his skin almost too gently, as close to Kevin as he is to Andrew, and the world goes quiet when he takes a step forward and fluidly falls to one knee, slapping Andrew’s hands away from his shoelaces and instead tying them for him. Unable to do much but watch, Andrew stares at the back of Kevin’s head. “I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”

“I am not jealous of anything,” is what Andrew replies. “Much less of you.”

Kevin hums in understanding, his thumb brushing against Andrew’s ankle, still touching nothing but the fabric of his socks. The care not to touch skin makes something inside of Andrew shatter, but he is not in the mood to examine and categorize the sharps.

“Okay,” he says, taking Andrew’s words at face value. Kevin tucks the ends of his shoelaces into the inside of Andrew’s sneakers before falling back swiftly, sitting cross-legged in front of Andrew. 

Outside of Exy, Kevin is serious, studious, and even serene. Andrew has known this for much longer than Neil — it were, after all, the one too many silent car rides that turned into long naps and the lethargic afternoons spent reading side by side that have made him pay attention to Kevin in the first place. Notwithstanding, it is the overwhelming quiet of the locker room that reminds Andrew just how tranquil Kevin can be when he wants to: with his thumb still gingerly tracing circles on Andrew’s ankle over the material of his sock and his breath steadily coming out in silent puffs, Kevin reminds him of a certain kind of suburban fragility Andrew has never fully managed to wrap his hands around.

It’s in Kevin’s quietened breaths — in the strip of light that makes the brown of his skin turn a dark pink — that Andrew imagines white picket fence houses and low sunsets, the eld of childhood that surely has not only today, but also tomorrow. He will make it in a way no one else in this place — and certainly not Andrew and Neil — will: that suburban tomb is still possible for Kevin. A yellow house on a hill, an orange cat that drools each time it yawns, a swimming pool with bright, big, blue teeth; every childish daydream stored in Andrew’s pockets being turned upside down for Kevin to take. The idea undoes in him a lifetime of yearning so thick Andrew has no idea how to cut through without getting webbed back into it.

It comes down to the fact that Kevin makes him _want._ It comes down to the fact that he doesn’t have to say a word for that. 

“What are you doing?” Andrew asks, at last, through tightly gritted teeth.

Kevin’s thumb freezes, then unpeels from Andrew’s ankle without reluctance. It wasn’t what Andrew was angry at, but Kevin doesn’t know — so what he replies, instead, is, “I don’t make your life any simpler, do I?”

Andrew blinks down at him. “I’m not complaining. You didn’t make the world.”

It is silent for a brief moment, and then Kevin makes a sound that could almost be a chuckle. “I have no idea what you mean,” he says. It doesn’t matter that he does, because Kevin is draped all over him like a net of light, which is more than understanding has ever done for Andrew. “Can you just admit that you were jealous so we can get to the car?”

“Things don’t become true when you say that they do.”

“I wish you’d see it that way, too.”

Andrew pauses, then forces his eyes to roll the affection out of themselves. “Get up. You look ridiculous sitting on the ground.”

But he doesn’t — what Kevin really looks like is sunlight made physical. It made Andrew wonder how anyone could stand looking at him for too long. 

“And you look ridiculous denying that you’re jealous,” Kevin points out as mercilessly as the pull of the tide, but he lets the subject drop anyways, because he never cares as much as he’d like people to think that he does. He pulls himself up single handedly, backpack hanging from his shoulder, and offers Andrew a scarred hand. “When you’re ready,” he hums, toneless.

They were toneless people: they fought and they mended and they existed, which wasn’t better or worse than the relationship of those who have not ached for their entire lives. From under the trees, they were good — from above the trees, they have been good. 

That is why it takes Andrew a moment of hesitation to accept the hand, but that is also why he accepts it in the first place. His knuckles slide behind Kevin’s, and the sudden urge to hold Kevin’s hand with both of his washes so strongly over Andrew that he has no choice but to do it, holding onto him so tightly it felt as if Kevin could heal every cut and bruise ever received if only Andrew stayed close enough. 

He could not, of course, but where Andrew held on so tightly it hurt, Kevin held back twice as tight. It felt like a mutual bargain: _if you’ll love me, I’ll love you._

**ii.**

“He’s staring,” is what Neil irritably points out as they are once alone in the kitchen, the both of them tasked with refilling popcorn bowls for tonight’s movie night. “He keeps staring. It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s never seen you before.”

Kevin shuts the microwave door with a thud. “What do you want me to do about it?” he hums, gaze flicking towards Neil. He looks soft underneath the kitchen lighting, Allison’s fairy lights reflecting on his scars and coloring them a pale pink, which makes Kevin’s irritation hesitate if only because the sight was as lovely as it could be. “Confronting him about his feelings is only going to prejudicate our team dynamics.”

Neil closes his eyes as if praying for patience. “It’s going to prejudicate our team dynamics if he keeps trying to get a chance, that’s what,” he huffs, though it carries no heat. As much as Kevin knows Jack gets on Neil’s nerves for more than just his crush on Kevin, he is also sure enough that Neil would never do anything to damage the Foxes’ already fragile ecosystem, and especially not so close to this years’ championship. 

“He will not get one regardless,” Kevin replies, taking a handful of steps towards Neil and linking their pinkies together as a peace treaty. “I don’t like Jack. There is no need to get jealous.”

His entire face falls, but Neil doesn’t retreat his pinkie. “I’m not jealous,” he disagrees, the faint blush of anger coloring his cheeks. “I just don’t like him. No one does.” Then, softer: “I don’t like how he sees you. He only has a crush because you’re Kevin Day.”

Kevin has to hold back a flinch at that, but he deems it a victory that he is able to. “It doesn’t matter,” Kevin insists at last, resting his wrist on Neil’s shoulder and delicately brushing his thumb against the skin of his neck. “I don’t care about Jack outside of Exy, and neither should you. He’s barely worth our time on court, so don’t waste yours outside of it too.”

Neil’s response is a swift sigh, though he moves closer to Kevin anyway. He’s been getting better at receiving affection — just a few months ago Neil’s reaction would be an awkward step forward, tentative as if experiencing love for the first time in his life, but now he’s more or less learned how to accept more than the necessary to survive. It still felt like petting an aloof stray cat, Kevin’s fingers hesitant and delicate, but he trusts Neil enough to know that he’d move away from Kevin if he didn’t want the touch. 

“Sit with Andrew, then,” is what Neil says — pleads, after a short while of silently allowing Kevin to caress his neck. “Jack’s scared of Andrew, so he’ll stop looking if you sit with him.” Slowly, he reaches a hand to tuck a strand of Kevin’s hair behind his ear, and justifies: “For the sake of the team. I’m at my limit when it comes to Jack and his staring is not helping.”

He presses his lips into a thin line at that, considering the request, before ultimately agreeing: “Okay,” Kevin tells him, “but only for the team’s sake. You perfectly know that you have no need to be jealous.”

Neil scoffs lowly. “I’m not jealous,” he repeats, tugging at a strand of Kevin’s hair obnoxiously. The corner of his lips tugs upward in a smirk as he hums, “I’m not Andrew.”

“Andrew is not at constant risk of punching Jack’s lights out, though.”

“You’d be, too, if he weren’t good at Exy.”

Kevin considers it for a moment, then nods. “But he is.”

“But he is,” Neil sighs miserably. The captain’s life is not one Kevin has ever wished for or envied — as much as he enjoys being in control of the team, he’d never be fit for such a job, as his interest in most of the Foxes ends as soon as they step out of the court. That, paired up with Kevin’s generally quiet — and even dare he say shy — personality, makes him clearly unfit for the role Neil fills in as well as one could. 

The microwave’s alarm goes off, making Kevin unwind himself from Neil’s touch easily. He doesn’t mind doing most of the work of refilling the bowls as Neil stands there and watches, because there is very little Kevin likes more than the liberty to organize things as he pleases — they’re out of the door soon enough, and Neil takes the task of distributing the bowls upon himself naturally, leaving Kevin to search around the room for Andrew. 

As usual, he’s sitting between the end of the couch and Nicky’s side, a perpetually bored expression on his face as he stares into nothing. Aaron takes Nicky’s other side, his posture a lot lazier as his legs rest on top of Nicky’s lap, the trio of them traitorously looking more like a family than Kevin ever reminds them being. As it is, there is no space near Andrew for Kevin to sit on: even the floor is too packed with Matt’s long limbs for him to be able to sit between Andrew’s knees. 

He frowns. His previous seat — by Neil’s side on the larger couch — had been taken by Robin, meaning Kevin’s only options were mingling with the freshmen or finding a way to squeeze himself between Nicky and Aaron. He’s about to just call it a night and walk back to his dorm when Andrew looks up enough to catch Kevin’s gaze, his eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. In response, Kevin motions silently to the room before huffing, telling Andrew all he needs to know without ever having to use words for it. 

Andrew slowly takes in the room for a moment, forming his own conclusions, before catching Kevin’s eyes again and — quite uncharacteristically in Kevin’s opinion, though maybe it shouldn’t be — discreetly patting his thigh, an invitation more than a request. It makes Kevin tilt his head to the side in response, another unspoken question passed between them, to which Andrew nods to sinalize _It’s okay. It’s a yes._

It’s not enough to completely cease Kevin’s hesitation, though: it wasn’t often that Andrew felt comfortable with this kind of affection, much less so in public, and though they have been growing freer with touch as their relationship grows, it was still uncommon for Andrew to initiate it. He doesn’t push when Kevin’s initial reaction is to hesitate — Andrew’s eyes fall back to the blank point they’ve been staring at as if to give Kevin space to think, making the weird feeling of being known spark deep in Kevin’s belly. At last, he decides there is no more implication in sitting on Andrew’s lap than there is in draping his legs over Nicky’s or knocking his shoulders against Aaron’s: the freshmen to whom Kevin was not out to were either too busy laughing with each other to care or would simply take the affection as platonic. 

He makes his way towards Andrew’s end of the couch, careful not to brush against the spread out limbs on the floor and almost stepping on Renee’s hand by accident. Kevin feels eyes on him as he moves — always does, though this time Jack accompanies Andrew and Neil’s stares —, but ignores it in favor of once again wordlessly asking Andrew if this is okay, after all. At the nod he receives in response, Kevin slides to awkwardly stand closer to Andrew, hands buried in the front pockets of his basketball shorts. 

“Sit or move out of the way, asshole,” Aaron grumbles under his breath, half his face illuminated by the television light. 

Kevin turns to Andrew, checking once more for any signs of discomfort, before his patience runs out and Andrew all but tugs on the material of his hoodie to bring Kevin down into his lap. It’s clumsy, of course, because Kevin hadn’t been expecting it, but Andrew adjusts them to his liking by turning Kevin around so that his back was directed at Andrew’s front and his knee was slotted between Kevin’s, leaving his other leg free. He presses his palm to Kevin’s lower stomach as a pretense for holding him in place, and leans back against the couch just enough to be able to see the TV. Kevin tentatively leans both of his palms on Andrew’s knee, finding the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and Andrew’s other hand comes to rest on his hip if only to make sure Kevin wouldn’t fall out. 

He turns to the side ever so slightly to find Neil’s eyes, those who look as pleased as Kevin has ever seen them be. Kevin makes a point out of rolling his own in Neil’s direction before bringing his attention back to the movie, Andrew’s hand toying with the fabric of his hoodie mindlessly. There is a respectable distance between Kevin’s back and Andrew’s chest, enough so that Kevin is almost not touching Andrew at all, though it falls shorter as the movie wears on and his back starts to ache ever so slightly from having to bend away from Andrew. 

It’s somewhere near the last few scenes of the movie that Andrew’s palm, still sitting heavy on Kevin’s stomach, pushes him back towards Andrew’s chest. Kevin frowns, resisting slightly, and turns to look at Andrew.

“Stop sitting like an asshole,” he murmurs, half-annoyed. 

“I’m just trying to give you space,” Kevin replies under his breath, mindful of the noise. 

“Shut up,” Andrew softly demands. His palm presses against Kevin’s stomach harder, pushing him to Andrew’s chest, and Kevin hesitantly goes. With his lips just by Kevin’s ear, Andrew says, “Watch your stupid movie.”

Kevin hums in agreement, slowly letting his muscles relax. Leaning against Andrew is nothing new to him — as long as he allows it, Kevin will gladly take up a spot in his lap. Still, Andrew’s palm rests against his stomach, protective enough to make Kevin’s heart take up the tranquil melody of those who have nothing to worry about. He’d admit only to himself that he enjoys Andrew’s possessiveness the slightest bit, if only because it made Kevin feel as if he had someone around his corner, looking over him: the steady way Andrew held him sent a message that could almost spell out _mine_ if Kevin cared to decipher it. 

Allison kicks the freshmen out as soon as the movie is over with the exception of Robin, whom they all agreed to take upon ever since Andrew had introduced her into the monsters. Their disappearance cleared up the room enough for Kevin to be able to choose which free seat he’d take, though when he makes to move away Andrew’s hands hold him down tighter. It’s uncommon behavior, but Kevin can’t help but swoon at the selfishness — so rarely Andrew wanted anything for himself _,_ it felt almost honorable to be at the other end of his wishes. 

“Stay,” Andrew mumbles. “They can’t see me if you’re there.”

It’s not funny, but it’s such an _Andrew_ thing to say that Kevin has to bite down on a smile. “Okay,” he agrees, leaning back and allowing Andrew to hide between his shoulder blades. 

He catches Neil’s smitten smile from across the room, anger long forgotten with Jack now out of the room, and Kevin can’t wash away the feeling of love for the rest of the night. 

**iii.**

Post-game parties are not Andrew’s thing, but then again, nothing is.

The otherwise empty corner of the campus most of Palmetto’s athletic teams took up to themselves after the Foxes’ last win was packed with plastic red cups and obnoxiously loud music, college students going back and forth under the starry Spring sky as the celebration took up more and more space in the grass. A Friday night in a college campus as big as Palmetto was bound to be noisy regardless of the occasion, but winning against the Trojans had raised the spirits considerably, to the point where Andrew quietly wondered if this amount of noise was even legal this late at night. 

He’d been sitting with Neil on one of the sheets stirred over the grass, fairly secluded from the rest of the party as they argued about this and that, more of an excuse to talk than a proper conversation. Andrew’s cigarette breathes smoke into the night air, crossing the blue of Neil’s eyes and making them a near-grey, and life could be a lot worse. Andrew is still learning how to count his victories. 

“Kevin,” Andrew prompts after a brief stretch of silence. The crowd is not as thick as it would be at Eden’s, people scattered over the grass and in small circles here and there, though no sign of Kevin is found as Andrew scans the room.

Neil hums. “With your brother. Dancing.” He steals Andrew’s cigarette for a second, taking a brief puff of it before placing it back in Andrew’s grasp as if the thievery never happened. The bastard. “He seemed to be having fun.”

“Good for him,” he replies, still searching for Kevin in the crowd nevertheless. 

He can predict Neil’s smirk before it even occurs, and Andrew hates, hates, hates him — hates that he _knows,_ and that he _understands._ “He’s fine, Andrew,” Neil half-teases, half-reassures. “You know he’s not a toddler.”

“Do I?” Andrew answers, toneless. 

“Yes,” he agrees, infuriatingly amused. Neil’s smile is a sharp, fluttery thing — Andrew felt held at knifepoint even in complete safety. “Want me to call him over?”

Andrew scoffs, killing his cigarette light against the grass. “No,” is his reply, Andrew’s hands coming up to dust off his jeans as he pulls himself up. “I’ll do it myself. Stay here.”

Neil raises a challenging eyebrow, tipping back a single gulp of his beer before uttering a cheeky “No promises,” that let Andrew know he was either tipsy, planning to disappear as soon as possible, or both. Regardless, what he gets for an answer is an inconvenienced glare sent his way before Andrew leaves in his search for Kevin.

Diving into the crowd is not entirely necessary — Kevin is quite visible on his own, a brown and orange blur that towers ever so slightly over most of the student body be it by height or personality —, so Andrew chooses to curve it to avoid as much socialization as it’s possible to avoid in favor of his already fray sanity. Five minutes is enough to find Kevin and Aaron, though Andrew takes embarrassingly long to identify the former due to the number on his varsity jacket being not its usual 2, but rather Neil’s 10, reaching just above his hip.

They don’t notice Andrew: both are too busy in what seems to be an intense (though surprisingly friendly) argument, Kevin’s hands gesticulating wildly as he tries to explain something to Aaron, who for his turn looks mildly confused but not unwilling to listen. They’re far enough from the dancing bunch to be able to move without much struggle, though Andrew can see Kevin swaying on his heels to the beat. It was endearingly human in a way only Kevin could be, and it made Andrew almost turn around and walk back into the party. 

He debates approaching the pair for exactly two seconds before Kevin leans down to hear Aaron say something over the music, followed then by Aaron’s sudden departure from the scene. Never doing well enough with being alone as he should, Kevin’s immediate reaction is to scan around the crowd for a familiar face, the one he finds just so happening to be Andrew’s. In a display of — frankly ridiculous — rotten judgement, all Andrew does is raise an unconcerned eyebrow towards Kevin, mouthing ‘come here’ just sharply enough to signal his impatience.

But Kevin never likes to make things easier for Andrew, and all he does is raise an eyebrow back as he slides back into the crowd though, granted, still in Andrew’s line of sight. The music is by far not even something Kevin would enjoy: the bass is too loud, stronger than whatever Kevin should be drinking, yet the urge to rail against Andrew is heavy enough to overpower his usual pretentiousness.

Watching Kevin dance was not unusual for Andrew, who was more than used to keeping an eye on him at all times regardless of their surroundings, but tonight his patience had ran its course — after a long game and enough socialization for an entire year, what Andrew can admit to want most is keeping Kevin by his side and tucked away from trouble. He waits until Kevin is able to find his eyes again to crook his finger back and forth, beckoning him closer and out of the crowd. The gesture makes Kevin squint at Andrew petulantly, eyeing him up and down as the beat goes as if just the idea of obeying to Andrew’s wishes was enough to make him nauseous. 

Andrew rolls his eyes, and Kevin — rotted man that he is, bless his heart — takes it as a prompt to exaggeratedly lick the tip of his middle finger before directing it towards Andrew, never breaking eye contact or even ceasing to dance at all. His movements are fluid, easy, a call to motion: Kevin managed to make insolence look ridiculously good under Palmetto’s yellow lights, the pink flash of his tongue only slightly topping the bored look in his eyes on the list of things that ignite a fire deep into Andrew’s chest and belly. As usual for anything related to Kevin, his common sense loses, and Andrew is already pushing through the crowd before he can notice his feet moving. 

In the end, he hates himself even more for giving Kevin exactly what he wants: he should know better by now that this is a game he can only lose, though he doesn’t seem to remember why as Kevin dances his way to Andrew, swaying through the beat as if it was made for him. The dance was easy and childish, everything that Kevin was supposed not to be — and yet he _was_ easy and childish, and Andrew loved-not-quite-it’s-hard-to-tell him for it, because it was so human. 

So they meet halfway, Kevin light as a rose and Andrew heavy as the earth. So it goes.

“My knight in a shining armor,” Kevin murmurs as soon as he’s close enough for Andrew to hear it, looking down with his face so near Andrew’s they could just crash into each other right here, right now, like magnets coming together. “Oh Andrew, my Andrew, what would I do without you?”

He is sober enough to be acidic, but the booze has made his tongue that much looser. Andrew finds a grip in his jacket before looking up and replying, “You’d slouch off of someone else’s back like the parasite that you are.”

Kevin laughs in that free way he can only quite manage while unaware of it, and Andrew’s entire body traitorously aches at the sound of it. His grip on Kevin’s — Neil’s? — jacket tightens, making Kevin’s hand come up to tap against Andrew’s wrist twice. _Let me go_ is what that usually means, though when Andrew does, Kevin just redirects his hand to the back of his neck instead.

Unable to resist, Andrew toys with the shorter strands of hair on his nape. Kevin leans down to hum appreciatively, then says, “I’ve been avoiding what’s-his-fucking-name for the entire night. At this point, it’s getting ridiculous.”

“It was ridiculous the first week, pathetic the second and humiliating from the third on,” Andrew corrects him, thumb dragging up and down Kevin’s neck. A shiver comes from it, because of course it does, and the effort needed to not crash his lips against Kevin’s is almost Herculean. “Let’s go. I’m done with this party.”

Kevin chuckles from somewhere deep in his throat, the sound of it hoarse enough to drag a reaction out of Andrew. “You were done with it before it even started,” he says, “you hate it here.”

“Yes,” he agrees, letting his palm slide to the juncture between Kevin’s shoulder and neck. “Come on,” Andrew squeezes lightly, the warm brown of Kevin’s skin somehow reaching his fingertips even through two layers of clothing. 

“Okay,” Kevin replies, seemingly done with insolence for now. Andrew keeps a hand on his nape as they walk through the crowd, and when they reach Neil, he is still there with his beer and his smile. 

It’s a good night. 

**iv.**

"Andrew," Kevin murmurs into Andrew's mouth, the two of them pressed together so intimately they could almost be each other's shadows. It was a rare closeness Andrew could only offer ever so often: in the mulled darkness of the room, he presses against Kevin with his entire body, a dream-like mass of muscle and warmth that has Kevin gently clutching at his sleeves, needing to be tethered.

"Kevin," Andrew replies, monotone. The shadows muffle his pale complexion ever so slightly, make his eyes look dark, turn Andrew's image into the well known stillness of Kevin's heart — he is not as beautiful as he is vital; necessary. Kevin is caught imagining that he'd dissolve and wither if Andrew were to let him go.

Which is why it's so hard to say — "Andrew, I don't– I don't think I'm there yet. At least not today," because he knows how hard-earned Andrew's closeness is. Because he knows how much it takes from Andrew to even allow this, with Kevin — as tall as he is lanky — of all people. He takes a deep breath, then continues: "I'm sorry. I know it's not often you get to have this."

Andrew stares at him for a moment suspended in time, eyes raking through Kevin as they do, before he gently — as gentle as Andrew can be — lets Kevin's sweatshirt fall back into place, previously bunched up by his torso. He smooths his palms over the fabric, methodically getting rid of crinkles, but doesn't pull away. "Do you want me to get off?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbows, on either side of Kevin's hips.

"No," Kevin replies, as honest as he is. He traces circles on Andrew's sleeves with his thumb, trying to fight the urge to cling — what he wants is to wrap legs and arms around Andrew so he is not let go of, but Kevin can recognize through the fog of his desperation that Andrew might not want to stay. "No, I want you here, I just– I can't give you what _you_ want."

 _And so you have no reason to keep me,_ the voice in his head completes for him, pairing heavy in the air between them. It's a pregnant silence that follows his reply, filled with tension Kevin wishes would just leave them alone for once. 

But he knows that's not how this works: he knows everything with Andrew needs to be a fair agreement, and his wishes of keeping him close without giving him something in return are anything but. 

Kevin thinks he knows what's coming next. But then, at last, Andrew slowly leans down to rest his cheek against Kevin's stomach, Kevin's legs bent over his shoulders, and says, "You do not have to give me anything."

"I don't want to take," Kevin whispers. He fears that if he speaks any louder it might shatter the dimly lit silence of the room.

Andrew's throat vibrates over Kevin's lower stomach as he replies, "Not giving anything and taking are not the same thing."

"Andrew," he calls, the name familiar and comforting like a mantra. Sometimes Kevin doesn't know what to say aside from Andrew's name — sometimes it's the only thing he can manage, the only word he can call out in need. Right now it sounds like a plea; like the _please_ Kevin can't say. "Andrew, I don't understand."

He sighs then, longsuffering, and buries his face in Kevin's stomach. "You never do," Andrew hums, not unkindly. His breath is warm against the fabric of Kevin's shirt, face heavy where it presses down to it, and Kevin feels the urge to drag his hands down Andrew's back. "I do not want anything you can't give me, Kevin Day." He squeezes his elbows around Kevin's hips. "Sex is not a bargaining chip."

"Then what use do you have for me?" Kevin gently asks, letting his legs fall limp to both of Andrew's sides. 

Andrew wraps arms around his waist at that, adjusting himself so as to rest his cheek against Kevin's belly, then says with no inflation, "Pillow."

Kevin slowly lets go of his grip on Andrew's sleeve, redirecting hands to his hair tentatively. It's only when his fingers card through the blonde curls that Andrew lets out a barely-there sigh, egging Kevin on enough to trace random shapes against Andrew's scalp with the very tip of his finger. 

"Yeah?" he asks, at last, more for the need of reassurance than actual doubt. 

"Mhm," Andrew answers. 

It's enough. Kevin continues to card fingers through Andrew's hair, feeling his breaths puff against his hip, and Andrew's arms tighten around his waist as if to say _stay._ It's a tight grip — perhaps tighter than most people's would be —, but Kevin can't find it in himself to mind: what is there to complain for? That he is loved?

 _You realize no one is going to take him away from you, right?_ is what Nicky once said when they were at Eden's Twilight, back in the start of the semester, and Andrew's grip on Kevin's hip was about as tight as iron. It was a joke, mostly — something to get at Andrew about, but the response gotten was one of blank incredulity. It was almost as if Andrew responded _you don't know that._

As he feels Andrew's breaths even out into the lulled softness of the sleeping, Kevin understands the feeling better than he ever thought he would: if the world with its big, sharp teeth and imminent disasters tried to take him away from Andrew's side, Kevin would not know mercy in his journey to get himself back to where he belongs.

They fall asleep safe, the both of them: Kevin squeezed into Andrew's almost-bruising grip, and Andrew with his so-called pillow.

**+i**

It's too late in the night for this, Andrew thinks. 

"Neil, it's okay," Kevin whispers, running fingers through Neil's wet hair as he kneels beside the bathtub, lukewarm water spilling over his knees and wrists as he tries to connect Neil back to the reality of their dorm bathroom. "Shhh, shh. It's okay."

" _Stop_ –" Neil tries to say, squirming around and splashing water everywhere, including Kevin. "It's not– It's not Kevin– _Stop._ Stop lying."

PTSD flashbacks of any kind weren't uncommon for their household, but, harmed as they were, Kevin's and Andrew's never came close to Neil's in terms of intensity. Neil was usually good at handling himself — better at it than Andrew ever would be —, but the past few days just haven't been good enough to give him something to fall back on when the going got too rough.

Aas much as he'd argue otherwise, the captain's life is wearing Neil thin: Andrew should've seen this coming the moment his texts got shorter, his meals got smaller, his presence became flicker. He should've known — but Neil isn't the only one struggling, and Andrew wouldn't be able to help him if he tried, the mere thought of dealing with someone else's pain cracking him open in a way he wasn't sure he could stitch up once cut. 

So it goes: everything falls upon Kevin, and Andrew can't do anything to help with that, either. All he can do is blearily look at them from the doorway, blanket wrapped around himself as if a protective barrier, unsure of how to turn away and too useless to help. 

"Neil," Kevin tries again, surprisingly patient if a bit awkward. His fist finds a grip in the front of Neil's shirt, soaked by the water, and the sight of it makes Andrew wince unconsciously. "Neil," he calls, tone softening, hands pulling Neil up and above the water. " _Neil._ Abram."

 _Abram_ works — Neil's squirming stops. "Abram," he repeats, clarity flowing down on him with deathly slowness. 

"Abram," Kevin agrees, in a whisper. He leans over the edge of the bathtub to get his face closer to Neil's, and Andrew knows how exhausted Kevin is by the way his thighs — always steady, until they're not — tremble with the strength needed to hold his body up. "You're Abram."

Neil blinks water away from his eyes, but doesn't respond. It's been hours already — exhaustion must be getting to him, or at least Kevin is. 

Kevin uses his hold on Neil's shirt to keep his back straight and his torso above water, Neil's body limp now that the tension is slowly draining from his muscles. "Neil," he repeats, his voice steady. "Wherever you are, it's okay. You can come back from it." 

It's not soft, but it is kind: Kevin is not the type of person who sweetens the wound, but he is a remedy in his own way. Resilience is strength's long lost twin, after all, and Andrew doesn't think he knows anyone else who would've stayed up with Neil the entire night for the sole purpose of being there, even if Kevin couldn't get through to him at all.

Kevin's voice becomes soft, serene, and he uses the fist on Neil's shirt to gently knead into his clothed chest, as if bringing life back to it. "Whatever the world looks like now, that's not how it always looks. There's more. There's always more." He digs his free hand into the water to fish for Neil's hand, wetting the sleeve of his hoodie in the process, though Kevin barely notices it. Or, if he does notice, he doesn't care. 

So Andrew watches him: so it goes. Kevin's personality is harder to palate than often depicted — quieter, too; less well-spoken and put together. Even now, his genius isn't in communication, but in the way his entire body works to keep Neil afloat, one hand firmly holding his and another pushing him forward and towards the light. Under the lighting of their shitty bathroom Kevin did not look like a saint of prophecy, or an angel pulling Neil from the darkness: he just looked exhausted, a common grim face tied to brown blemished skin and thousands of birthmarks splattered across his face. 

So Kevin isn't a saint. So Kevin is rude, headstrong, flawed, volatile, obsessive — Andrew doesn't care. In his passion, Kevin often forgets his own limits: he forgets his exhaustion, his aversion to water, his rational thinking, his clumsy way with words. In his passion, there is nothing Kevin wouldn't do. There is no weight he wouldn't hold to make sure Neil stays afloat.

"Are you tired?" Kevin asks Neil after some moments of silently dragging his thumb over his knuckles, allowing Neil's breath to be regained.

Neil doesn't reply, still limply leveraging himself with Kevin's strength, but he does make a sound at the back of his throat — heartbreaking and immediate, a silent plea Andrew doesn't know what for. Kevin seems to know, though, because the next thing he does is hug Neil's head to his chest, unminding the way the contact soaks his otherwise dry enough clothes in water. His palm cups the side of Neil's neck, and a long, heaved out sigh is passed between them, an admission of tiredness. 

Everyone Andrew knows is in some kind of pain, but more so are Kevin and Neil — Andrew wants to reach out and press a palm to each of their chests, wants to fill the universal gaping hole that every human is born with, but he realizes that they don't need him to. That they will adapt, and adjust, and live; which means that Andrew doesn't have to carry their weights. Which means that Andrew, too, needs to adapt, adjust and live. What else is there to do?

He watches as Kevin soaks himself even more by helping Neil out of the bathtub, and listens when Kevin whispers what will happen next like one does when taking care of a very small child: I will dry you off, then I will give you new clothes, then I will cook something, then we will eat it, then we will sleep, then we will be alive again. We, we, we — like a map of tasks to be done, Kevin tells them what they will do next, and they let him. Something intense and tender washes over Andrew at the realization, and it's unendurable.

Kevin gets Neil out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel and left to his own devices for the time being, but he doesn't forget Andrew: he comes back, wet hoodie changed into a dry sweater, and leans on the opposite side of the doorway. 

"You okay?" he asks. He is exhausted. His eyes are a little swollen, but Kevin acts as if it is unnoticeable. 

Andrew doesn't answer. For once, he asks, "Can you make pancakes?"

And just like always, Kevin answers, "These are bad for you," but makes them anyway.

They'll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> :^) im dayurno on tumblr if u fancy reaching out. have a good day


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